Robert Ludlum’s™ The Treadstone Rendition, page 1
ROBERT
LUDLUM’S™
THE
TREADSTONE
RENDITION
THE BOURNE SERIES
Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Sacrifice(by Brian Freeman)
Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Treachery(by Brian Freeman)
Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Evolution(by Brian Freeman)
Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Initiative(by Eric Van Lustbader)
Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Enigma(by Eric Van Lustbader)
Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Ascendancy(by Eric Van Lustbader)
Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Retribution(by Eric Van Lustbader)
Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Imperative(by Eric Van Lustbader)
Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Dominion(by Eric Van Lustbader)
Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Objective(by Eric Van Lustbader)
Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Deception(by Eric Van Lustbader)
Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Sanction(by Eric Van Lustbader)
Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Betrayal(by Eric Van Lustbader)
Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Legacy(by Eric Van Lustbader)
The Bourne Ultimatum
The Bourne Supremacy
The Bourne Identity
THE TREADSTONE SERIES
Robert Ludlum’s The Treadstone Transgression(by Joshua Hood)
Robert Ludlum’s The Treadstone Exile(by Joshua Hood)
Robert Ludlum’s The Treadstone Resurrection(by Joshua Hood)
THE BLACKBRIAR SERIES
Robert Ludlum’s The Blackbriar Genesis(by Simon Gervais)
THE COVERT-ONE SERIES
Robert Ludlum’s The Patriot Attack(by Kyle Mills)
Robert Ludlum’s The Geneva Strategy(by Jamie Freveletti)
Robert Ludlum’s The Utopia Experiment(by Kyle Mills)
Robert Ludlum’s The Janus Reprisal(by Jamie Freveletti)
Robert Ludlum’s The Ares Decision(by Kyle Mills)
Robert Ludlum’s The Arctic Event(by James H. Cobb)
Robert Ludlum’s The Moscow Vector(by Patrick Larkin)
Robert Ludlum’s The Lazarus Vendetta(by Patrick Larkin)
Robert Ludlum’s The Altman Code(with Gayle Lynds)
Robert Ludlum’s The Paris Option(with Gayle Lynds)
Robert Ludlum’s The Cassandra Compact(with Philip Shelby)
Robert Ludlum’s The Hades Factor(with Gayle Lynds)
THE JANSON SERIES
Robert Ludlum’s The Janson Equation(by Douglas Corleone)
Robert Ludlum’s The Janson Option(by Paul Garrison)
Robert Ludlum’s The Janson Command(by Paul Garrison)
The Janson Directive
ALSO BY ROBERT LUDLUM
The Bancroft Strategy
The Ambler Warning
The Tristan Betrayal
The Sigma Protocol
The Prometheus Deception
The Matarese Countdown
The Apocalypse Watch
The Scorpio Illusion
The Road to Omaha
The Icarus Agenda
The Aquitaine Progression
The Parsifal Mosaic
The Matarese Circle
The Holcroft Covenant
The Chancellor Manuscript
The Gemini Contenders
The Road to Gandolfo
The Rhinemann Exchange
The Cry of the Halidon
Trevayne
The Matlock Paper
The Osterman Weekend
The Scarlatti Inheritance
ROBERT
LUDLUM’S™
THE
TREADSTONE
RENDITION
A NOVEL SET IN THE
JASON BOURNE UNIVERSE BY JOSHUA HOOD
www.headofzeus.com
First published in the US in 2023 by G.P. Putnam’s Sons,
an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
First published in the UK in 2023 by Head of Zeus,
part of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Copyright © Joshua Hood, 2023
Copyright © Myn Pyn LLC, 2023
The moral right of Joshua Hood to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (HB): 9781803285818
ISBN (XTPB): 9781803285825
ISBN (E): 9781803285795
Head of Zeus
5–8 Hardwick Street
London EC1R 4RG
www.headofzeus.com
Contents
The Bourne Series
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
About the Author
An Invitation from the Publisher
PROLOGUE
TANGI VALLEY, AFGHANISTAN
AUGUST 2011
Alpha Team was sucking gas. The twelve-man team of Afghan soldiers and Green Berets had been roaming the mountains of the Wardak Province in central Afghanistan for days now, tracking a group of insurgents responsible for shooting down an American CH-47D Chinook resupply helicopter just weeks before. All thirty-eight people on board the helicopter had died, including thirty American military personnel—the worst loss of American lives in Afghanistan since Operation Enduring Freedom had begun a decade earlier. Lieutenant Adam Hayes and his men had been tasked with finding the Taliban fighters who’d fired the rocket-propelled grenade, and they and an escort squad from the Afghan National Army had been searching tirelessly, their bodies beaten down by the unrelenting Afghan heat and the fifty-plus pounds of body armor, weapons, and ammunition strapped to their backs.
But despite the pain, Hayes knew they were closing in on their prey. He’d pushed his men hard, and had no intention of letting up until his team had avenged the loss of those thirty-eight lives.
His team sergeant had other ideas.
“Boss, we’re going to need to call a halt,” the sergeant told him over the radio, as the team trudged slowly up a steep, rocky trail. “The Afghans are out of water.”
Hayes muttered a curse, wiping his face against the sleeve of his desert BDUs. “What, Mike, again?”
“Roger,” the sergeant replied.
Hayes cursed again. Turned back the way they’d come in time to see one of the ANA regulars shuffling up the trail, the stock of his AK-47 dragging in the dust.
You’ve got to be shitting me.
As more of the soldiers came into view, Hayes could see clearly they were struggling. Breathing heavily, open-mouthed, every step looking like they were wearing concrete boots. They’d chosen a hell of a place to shut down, though; with the ridgeline on their left flank and a craggy rock face to their right, this place was Ambush City. It was not the kind of terrain Hayes wanted to hang around in for long.
But as the team leader, he was responsible for the safety and well-being of both his men and the Afghans assigned to him, and Hayes could already sense that the ANA fighters were losing their trust in him. The Americans were motivated—seventeen Navy SEALs had died in that Chinook attack—but the locals required a little more finessing.
Besides, it wouldn’t do to lose a valuable fighter to dehydration and heat exhaustion. Not here, miles from anything remotely resembling safe ground.
Fuck.
Realizing he had no choice, Hayes depressed the push-to-talk button on his plate carrier and keyed up the radio.
All right, Mike,” he told his sergeant. “Find us a place to stop.”
*
Two minutes later, they came to a halt in a narrow clearing, and while the rest of his men set up a hasty perimeter, Hayes gathered their extra canteens and moved to the rear of the formation to wait for the Afghans.
Dropping to a knee next to a boulder, he fished the hydration tube from the inside of his plate carrier and stuck the valve between his lips. The first pull came out of the tube warm as bathwater, but it was still wet, and with the amount of dust coating the inside of Hayes’s mouth, that was all that mattered. While he swished the water around in his mouth, his team sergeant broke off from the ANA men he’d herded into the perimeter and came over to retrieve the canteens.
“How are they already out of water, Mike?” Hayes asked him.
“Boss, you’ve got me,” the sergeant replied. “I checked all their canteens this morning and they were full.”
“Do you think they’re pouring it out? Trying to slow us down?”
“No, I don’t think they’d do that. Do you?”
Hayes wouldn’t have believed it, but he remembered the warning he’d received from a Special Forces major back in Kabul.
The Afghan regulars are worthless. Half of them would rather be fighting for the Taliban than helping us take back their country. And the rest are a bunch of fucking cowards.
It sounded like a shit sandwich to Hayes, and the major had agreed.
Keep your hand on your pistol and your head on a swivel, he’d told Hayes. Because the moment you let your guard down, one of these savages will put a bullet in your back.
The warning had rung hollow at the time—Hayes knew there were plenty of good men among the Afghan ranks, and good fighters, too—but now, with an unknown enemy lurking behind every ridge, he was beginning to wonder if he’d put too much trust in the ANA team’s commanding officer.
Only one way to find out.
“Where’s Captain Nassim?” Hayes asked his sergeant.
The sergeant shrugged. “Last I saw, he was chewing someone’s ass over by that boulder.”
“All right. Get the men hydrated and ready to move.” Hayes stood. “I don’t want to be here any longer than we have to.”
While his team sergeant gathered the canteens and carried them back to the Afghans, Hayes went in search of Abdul Nassim, the Afghans’ commanding officer. He found the captain standing toe to toe with his platoon sergeant, eyes angry as he jabbed the man in the chest.
“The men running out of water is unacceptable,” Nassim told the sergeant. The man made to argue, but Nassim cut him off with the wave of a hand. “I will deal with you later,” he snapped. “You’re dismissed.”
Hayes waited until the platoon sergeant was out of earshot, then approached Nassim. “Rough day at the office?” he asked, pulling a Nalgene bottle from the pouch on his plate carrier and handing it over.
Nassim pursed his lips. “They’re all rough,” he replied. “And I have plenty of water.”
“Can’t have too much out here,” Hayes said. “Not in this heat, anyway.”
“A fair point.” Nassim took the bottle, but instead of drinking stepped closer to Hayes, his dark eyes serious. “My men are not cowards, Lieutenant Hayes.”
“Never said they were.”
“Maybe you haven’t, but your colleagues back in Kabul—”
“Aren’t here, Captain,” Hayes told him. “As far as I’m concerned, every man on my team is grateful for your help tracking down these assholes who killed our friends.” He met Nassim’s eyes. Smirked. “We just wish your people would quit drinking your water so fast.”
Nassim glanced at him. Smiled a weary smile. He unscrewed the top of the Nalgene, and after drinking his fill, handed it back. “You are different than most Americans I have worked with.”
Hayes was about to respond when a trickle of shale and crushed earth from the ridgeline to his left grabbed his attention. It was a little thing, a variance most men wouldn’t have even noticed, but after five months in the aptly named Valley of Death, Hayes’s senses had learned to pick up on such things.
Instantly on guard, he raised his M4 skyward, studying the ridgeline through the Trijicon ACOG scope mounted to the rail of the rifle.
“What is it?” Nassim asked. “What do you see?”
Hayes ignored him, and panned across the rock face, senses straining for anything out of place. But there was nothing, and Hayes began to wonder if he was overreacting.
Suddenly, a flash of flame burst out from a pile of rocks maybe twenty yards from Hayes’s eyeline, followed a split second later by the guttural roar of a Soviet-made PKM machine gun.
“Contact left!” Hayes shouted, flicking off the safety catch of the M203 grenade launcher mounted beneath the barrel of his M4. He pulled the trigger, the thoop of the 40mm grenade leaving the launcher anemic compared to the hellfire roar of the machine gun.
But the grenade hit its mark, and while the explosion silenced the gun, there were more fighters hidden in the rocks, and soon the defile was echoing with the chatter of AK-47s and the screech of RPGs leaving their launchers.
Desperate to get out of the line of fire, Hayes was looking for cover when he took a 7.62x54mm round to the plate carrier, the impact sending him staggering backward. At first there was no pain, just the hiss of the air from his lungs and the sudden imbalance in his legs. Then he felt it, the burning thunderclap through his nerve endings and the spreading warmth across his skin.
Shit, I’m hit.
The thought had no sooner crossed his mind than a second round found his helmet, and then he was on the ground. Bullets sparked off of the rocks around him, showering his face with fragments of lead and slivers of stone.
You’re going to die here, he realized. His movements sluggish, his thoughts a crawl. The whole world strangely muted, the firefight already fading out around him. This is it.
There was no time to feel scared, or angry. There was barely any pain, even. Just an overarching sense of guilt, of failure.
You let down your team. And those thirty-eight men who died in that helicopter.
You let down your country.
There was nothing Hayes could do about it now. He couldn’t make his muscles move, couldn’t stand and run or even crawl. He was a sitting duck out here, he knew; sooner or later, one more Taliban bullet would find him, and that would be the end.
And then, he was moving. Not by his own volition; someone was dragging him. Rough, over the rocks and the dirt, away from the line of fire. Toward safety.
Hayes craned his neck back. Saw Abdul Nassim above him, gripping tight to his plate carrier, his mouth set in a thin line of determination. The face of the ANA captain was the last thing Hayes would remember seeing, before the whole world cut to black.
1
MAIDAN WARDAK PROVINCE, AFGHANISTAN
AUGUST 15, 2021
The CIA-contracted Mi-17V raced over the ridgeline, the pilot chomping hard on the stick of gum as he cleared the ridge and dove for the spiderweb of wadis—water channels, bone dry in the summer heat—that crisscrossed the valley floor. Like everyone else aboard the helicopter, he was all too aware of the valley’s reputation as a Taliban stronghold, and with the American withdrawal from Afghanistan already underway, the last thing he wanted was to get shot down in Indian country.
The pilot had been desperate for a way out of this mission ever since they’d taken off from the CIA compound in Kabul, but with the target area rapidly approaching, he knew he was running out of time.
He was beginning to give up any hope of aborting when a quick look at the instrument panel showed both the oil pressure and the RPM gauges dangerously close to the red, a clear sign that he was pushing the aged Russian helo too hard. The prudent move would be to ease up, decrease the power, but instead, the pilot sensed the chance for a last-minute reprieve. He reached for the collective, wondering how much more throttle it would take before something on the aircraft finally failed.
He wouldn’t get the chance to find out. As he began to increase power, a silver-haired man stepped into the cockpit from the helo’s cargo bay, the lights of the instrument panel glinting off of the pistol in his hand.
*
Dominic Porter wasn’t a maintenance officer, but after ten years in the Navy SEALs and another decade as a CIA paramilitary officer, he’d logged more hours in the air than most pilots. From fresh off the assembly line UH-64 Black Hawks to the Eastern Bloc relics favored by third-world dictators, he’d spent enough time in darkened cargo holds to know the good sounds from the bad.
